Author: poetryfest

From my blue checkered couch,
I smell florals so
pungent, I think of food.
The pom-pom flowers
smell of soup; in my
thoughts, I add garlic and
Dominican oregano.
I bring the mortar to my
mother, with the herbs
pulverized. I show her I am finished.
I see why artists paint
their childhood.
It is the goodness at the
end of the sickness.

She strides to walk towards Wilma’s photo by the fridge,
She cooks Wilma’s beef stew by the fire,
She loves Wilma she knows at their love’s edge,
Together they bid a special flame by symphonic lyre;
She could be Wilma’s sister,
She could be her friend,
Yet together, they look far better,
Than a brethren’s love’s twisting end…
Where both shall walk by holding hands…
…And yet, by love’s command…
…Whatever the kind of love is…
…She seems to walk to Wilma at the door to give her bliss on her lips to kiss!

O mighty Mountain, cradle of the deep,
Your walls of stone, where echoes softly, sleep.
Zillion-year rocks carved by time’s flowing hand,
You stand eternal, a balm to this land.

Beneath your rim, the Mountains sing,
A hymn of renewal, its melody brings
The broken, the weary, to rapids that roar,
And Heals the spirit to dream once more.

O river, with currents that twist and wend,
You carry the lost, their hearts to mend.
Guides, like sages, steer through your embrace,
Where shrapnel fades, and hope finds its place.

See the Soldier, once silent, anger his shield,
Now eloquent nature, pain revealed.
Countless days with whispers and might, His
soul rekindled, heart set alight.

O canyon vast, where shadows entwine,
A Pilot finds strength in sacred design.
Through rapids unflipped, her courage renewed,
She rises victorious, life re-pursued.

Your grottoes conceal pools of grace,
Hidden realms where time slows its pace.
Dreams long buried in modern strife.
Are unearthed, reborn, and given new life.

Guides and travelers, their fates align,
In your embrace, under cliffs divine.
Jobs left behind, and vows proclaimed,
In your vast silence, lives are reclaimed.

O ancient rocks, whispering of ages past,
Your sunsets glow, your beauty steadfast.
Not merely of stone, nor merely of stream,
But a tapestry woven from nature’s dream.

Science finds what you’ve always shown:
The Healing of the body, the mending of bone.
Through ions in the air and forest’s breath,
You push back despair; you quiet death.

Even in cities where chaos reigns,
A fountain’s trickle or green domain
Calls back the Soul to its rooted truth:
Nature restores and rekindles youth.

O Mountain, O River, eternal and vast,
May your Healing flow forever.
For in your depths, we find our place,
Not above, but as part of your sacred space.

So let us follow where your waters lead,
Through twists, through turns, through joy and need.
In the Mountain’s embrace, we stand made whole,
A harmony of Body, Heart, and Soul.

O mighty Mountain, cradle of the deep,
Your walls of stone, where echoes softly, sleep.
Zillion-year rocks carved by time’s flowing hand,
You stand eternal, a balm to this land.

Beneath your rim, the Mountains sing,
A hymn of renewal, its melody brings
The broken, the weary, to rapids that roar,
And Heals the spirit to dream once more.

O river, with currents that twist and wend,
You carry the lost, their hearts to mend.
Guides, like sages, steer through your embrace,
Where shrapnel fades, and hope finds its place.

See the Soldier, once silent, anger his shield,
Now eloquent nature, pain revealed.
Countless days with whispers and might, His
soul rekindled, heart set alight.

O canyon vast, where shadows entwine,
A Pilot finds strength in sacred design.
Through rapids unflipped, her courage renewed,
She rises victorious, life re-pursued.

Your grottoes conceal pools of grace,
Hidden realms where time slows its pace.
Dreams long buried in modern strife.
Are unearthed, reborn, and given new life.

Guides and travelers, their fates align,
In your embrace, under cliffs divine.
Jobs left behind, and vows proclaimed,
In your vast silence, lives are reclaimed.

O ancient rocks, whispering of ages past,
Your sunsets glow, your beauty steadfast.
Not merely of stone, nor merely of stream,
But a tapestry woven from nature’s dream.

Science finds what you’ve always shown:
The Healing of the body, the mending of bone.
Through ions in the air and forest’s breath,
You push back despair; you quiet death.

Even in cities where chaos reigns,
A fountain’s trickle or green domain
Calls back the Soul to its rooted truth:
Nature restores and rekindles youth.

O Mountain, O River, eternal and vast,
May your Healing flow forever.
For in your depths, we find our place,
Not above, but as part of your sacred space.

So let us follow where your waters lead,
Through twists, through turns, through joy and need.
In the Mountain’s embrace, we stand made whole,
A harmony of Body, Heart, and Soul.

My notebook aslant,
I write,
Or rather, inscribe,
My pen impressing
Its ideas
Upon the yielding fibers
Of the pages
Beneath
The one I am writing on.
I hear her heavy tread,
Then I sense her pause,
Mid-stride, next to me.
My peripheral vision
Catches the myopic glint
Of a gold bangle.
Then, her hands
Turn my book,
In a half-pendulum swing,
So that it sits straight,
Like her,
Spine erect.

My test comes back,
In a day,
Corrected.
I open the book,
And my back stiffens.
There sit my T’s,
Crossed in straight red lines,
Their scrolled, curlicued ends snipped.
Now, I not only have to
Mind my P’s and Q’s,
But cross my T’s as well,
The ‘propah’ way,
Like my teacher’s back,
Ramrod straight.

Coffeeganger or Coffeedouble

The mug twirls in the microwave.
The tea bag inside swells,
Releasing a light brown hue
Into the hot water,
That soon darkens into a deep golden brown.
I think of the infusion pump
Upstairs, that screams in protest
Whenever an air bubble appears
In the IV bag or line.
The bubbles in the tea
Don’t make anything scream though.

I pull out the mug to add some milk,
When I hear a ‘Hello!’
To my left, bright, cheery, like the face
That peers at me.
Cheery face decides to go cutesy.
‘Sooo, is there coffee in these?’
It asks,
Pointing to two flasks
On the counter.
I nod yes, absent-mindedly.

‘Sooo, can I have a cup?’
Asks the face.
‘Oh!’ I say.
‘I am not the coffee lady!’
Years of having to explain myself
Make my weary words drip,
In minimalist mode,
Drip, like coffee.

I start pointing fingers:
My thumb twerks towards the staircase:
‘Patient!’ I say.
It then jerks in my direction:
‘Family!’
My right hand points to the microwave:
‘Making myself tea!’
My left hand gestures towards

The Real Cafeteria Lady:
‘She can help you!’

The face shows dismay, shock,
Je ne sais quoi,
And floats away.

‘Hi!’ says a voice.
I turn, and see a girl
Peering at something to my right.
A little board, bearing a flotilla
Of coffee flavors and cup sizes,
Written in chalk.
‘I’d like a decaf, large,
With hazelnut cream and
A swirl of caramel on top,’
She says.

I do my not-the-coffee lady show and tell routine.
I am back in kindergarten.
She drifts away, still uncaffeinated.

I grab my tea and run for the elevator,
Molting, sloughing off the sheath
Of Dispenser in Charge,
To become
Dispenser at Large.

BTW, I do drink coffee sometimes.
I like mine brown,
Like me.

Sit down my friend, and let me tell
a tale of times of strife,
of days so dark, when war, disease
and hunger were so rife.

And so begin all great eddas,
sagas, epics, and songs.
Although I must admit, it is
histories that I long.

Oh please, give me a tale of kings,
so wise, kindly, and bold,
who once actually lived and walked
the Earth in times of old.

For long I studied the works of great
sage scholars, but in time
soon found to read was not enough.
I needed to pen mine.

Where does one go to witness it?
To stand in attendance
at the first breath of history?
I met a king by chance.

Impressing him with wit and way
with words, I earned a job
as Royal scribe, recording the King’s
victories with aplomb.

I had attained my heart’s desire,
and yet I needed more.
There’s a tragedy being royal
scribe when there is no war.

Historians live looking back,
and I could see the past
in the shelves of the library.
Words scribed in peace don’t last.

To make my book endure was work,
such vile scheming I
scarce not speak of it, yet I must.
Of treachery and lie.

The king’s fiancée was a maid
of fine birth and feature
and I plotted her sad demise.
Oh, loathsome sick creature.

I spread gossip, rumors, tall tales,
oh wretched man I am,
to stain her honor and name,
the maid suffered the scam.

And all the while, I scribed the story,
just waiting for the war
as two kingdoms scuffled and raged
to settle the king’s score.

A wound to honor can only
be salved with blood, they say.
And so I counted on as I
sat waiting for the fray.

However, I did not foresee
the parley which brought peace,
when the two unexpectedly
spoke so conflict would cease.

It was good news for the king and
his bride, but not for me,
as word of the rumors led back
to he who told it, see.

Which would be me. I knelt before
my king and begged pardon
but found none. The king condemned me
for I lost his ardor.

As penance, King bade me travel
the country to share my
tale, allowing me to beg coins
if my foolish woes vie
sympathy from any who listen.
I’ll admit myself to
be a flawed man. I’ll even fall
as I degrade into
a beggar, but foolishness is
not something I’ll admit,
despite the King’s decree, for I
write my own small acquit.

Do remember this scholar, for
while there’s ink in the pen
then my sad history has not
yet come to my tale’s end

I will know the taste of her skin
after a long Sunday
on a lazy Riviera Maya beach
where the sun
has sunk in
deep enough
to disinfect
my memory
of when love
struck me dead

Coronas and Modelos
in thick glass bottles
will sweat nervously
awaiting limes and lips
while we edge closer
than translation can describe

I will run my tongue
slowly up her bicep
tasting every year we spent apart
then bite into her shoulder, hard
like she is a crisp apple
like I am Eve

I saw love in their eyes. The kind that leaves you wondering what they’re thinking. They scan over your life like a book with missing pages, licking their index finger so as to not dent the pages. Dusting off the surface from past neglect. Their head never turns and their expression stays absent . No matter how much time passed they always found their way back, putting a bookmark in the spine & placing you down to rest. They teach you patience. No amount of “I love you’s” have been equivalent to what they can show you. So you wait, keeping that same book cover present, hoping that they pick you back up again. And they do, dusting you off like fragile glass, turning on every light in the room, & putting on their reading glasses to get a better view.

This is the place
we stake our skins to the earth. Hopeful,

as we climb into each other, seem bigger
in case monsters.

Tonight, a stand
of evergreens hides the bodies

of heaven and their mythologies. Without sky, the gray moss whispers,
there is only forever; tomorrow

is forfeit – and the next day
and the next.

Then, we’ll braid you in our hair when we feel like being old
men leaning

against the give of the ground, sighing.
Never let this be a memory.

And I keep so still, praying you’ll stay and forget
everything we haven’t done.